


Rising King

by theparadoxicalfox, TrulyMightyPotato



Series: Royal Flush [44]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Arson, Guns, Murder, PJ is very scary when he wants to be, blood and injuries, series-typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29413296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparadoxicalfox/pseuds/theparadoxicalfox, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyMightyPotato/pseuds/TrulyMightyPotato
Summary: July 1923. PJ settles an old account.
Series: Royal Flush [44]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/699969
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Rising King

_ July 26, 1923 _

A year and a half.

The Family had been hunting Santoro for a year and a half, trying to find the man who had betrayed them, betrayed  _ him,  _ to Wald in exchange for the empty promise of a place in the Family.

The clap of thunder was loud, and for an instant the interior of the car was full of electric blues and stark shadows. The box on the back seat of the car seemed all the more foreboding in the light, as if finally realizing its purpose.

PJ closed his eyes, remembering the blueprints Jordan had managed to find of Santoro’s hideout. An apartment building. Santoro was living on the fourth floor, the second door in the hall. Jordan had described the door in detail: the apartment number had been removed, but it hadn’t been repainted and the holes from the nails remained easily visible.

He’d even gotten a glimpse inside the apartment when Santoro had passed him to enter. He’d seemed a bit surprised that the man who’d originally hired him years ago hadn’t even spared a glance at him. Granted, if Jordan was right, Santoro hardly looked the same anymore himself. Going bald would do that. Doing so deliberately, even more so.

PJ adjusted the sleeves of his suit jacket and smoothed the collar of his coat. He was representing the Family here, so it wouldn’t do to be at all out of place. He was a capo, after all; had been for years. He knew how this sort of thing went. And making sure his weapons were in place was always a useful thing to do—though the weights in his pocket and holster were plenty enough of a reminder without the knife sheaths under his sleeves.

“Jordan,” he said, looking up to examine the road in front of them, “how long?”

“He’s right on the edge of town.” Jordan nodded ahead of them as the lights on the car lit up the road and rain in front of them, revealing buildings made of brick and wood… primarily wood. “Only another few minutes.”

PJ nodded, placing his hands still in his lap. He had seen the cars and familiar silhouettes of several of his men as they approached the apartment, and he knew the rest would be in their places as they got even closer.

“The rain might make things a little difficult,” he observed simply. “Nothing too bad, though.”

“Guess so.” Jordan didn’t bother glancing over this time either, merely reaching down to pull the windshield wipers and clear their line of sight. “You’re the boss.” The ‘and a complete idiot’ remained unspoken, but PJ recognized the tone of voice well enough to ignore it.

PJ smiled at the thrill those words sent down him. Here, cities away from Boston, from the Family and the godfather, he was the absolute authority to the men in the Family. It was exciting. And the thought that one day he’d make his way to become the godfather, that this would be his life in and out of Boston, as long as there were members of the Liguori family around... He was more than ready to do whatever it took to solidify his position and gain enough loyalty from the others to ensure that.

Matthias already supported him, he mused softly as they came to a stop. Or, at least, PJ was sure that when push came to shove (which it would, very soon), Matthias would side with him, even though PJ was both younger and more inexperienced. They both valued the safety and well-being of the Family and allowing the interpersonal relationships in the men to grow. Men who valued each other, after all, were more likely to work together as a unit.

Zombie, on the other hand, while a brilliant capo, had hardly gotten his feet under him in the position. He’d been a good soldati for a long time, and PJ admired his methodical way of going about things. Had he not been so involved in running one of the Family’s business covers for so long, PJ was sure Zombie would have been chosen as a capo before him—but he’d passed it up in favor of making sure things were working properly. He was a capo now, anyway, so it wasn’t like it was really all that big of a deal, but given that he’d originally been one of Santoro’s men, well...

PJ felt he could trust Zombie. He couldn’t say why (especially given that it was quite possible Zombie had been involved in the stunt that had so nearly cost PJ his life,) just that he did. Zombie had certainly fought hard enough for control of his men after becoming a capo, after replacing Santoro, even if taming the worst of the rebellion had been done with the dangerous end of a gun.

It wouldn’t be too hard to get Zombie’s support, PJ decided, getting out of the car in sync with Jordan. It would take time, of course, but that was alright.

Just so long as nobody found out about Freddy’s.

PJ’s shoes squelched softly in the mud, but he ignored it in favor of glancing around and making eye contact with his men.

“Are you sure about this, Peej?” Jordan asked softly as they walked up to the door of the apartment building. “He’s still got supporters. You could be in a lot of trouble, you know.”

“Stick to the plan, Sparklez,” PJ warned, tapping his pocket watch to clear its face of raindrops. “We know he wants me. There’s no point in harming anyone else.” Nearly nine at night. He’d be back in Boston before dawn, then.

With that, PJ stepped inside the apartment building.

Alone.

The stairs up to the fourth floor were simple and narrow. PJ couldn’t imagine the difficulty of getting furniture to the upper apartments. The blueprints hadn’t shown any elevator.

Fourth floor.

Second door.

PJ knocked on the solid wood.

It took a long moment, but it finally cracked open—then opened fully, revealing none other than the man the Family had been searching for for so long.

Matthew Santoro.

“Ah.” Santoro’s gaze flicked over PJ. “I see you’re still alive.”

“I could say the same for you.” PJ stepped forward, and Santoro reluctantly stepped to the side to allow PJ in.

“For now, you mean?” Santoro laughed softly. “I know what you being here means.”

“I’m certain one of us is coming out of this dead.” PJ glanced at the walls of the small apartment, noting how bare they were, and the closed door to another room. “Which one remains to be seen.”

“Why the civility?”

Santoro closed the door behind PJ, and while he couldn’t hear it lock he was sure it had been.

“There’s no need for anything else, Santoro.” PJ met Santoro’s gaze evenly. “We worked together for a long time. There’s no need for hostility.”

Santoro raised an eyebrow. “You’re not upset then?”

“About you hiring Jordan Maron? No.” PJ smiled, though his eyes remained cold. “About you talking to Wald and promising him something he could never have, in exchange for my life? Very much so.”

“Ah.” Santoro walked over to the stove in the kitchen and the kettle on it. “Do you want some tea?”

PJ glanced at his pocket watch. Eight minutes. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for that tonight, though I appreciate the offer. It’s good to know you’ve retained at least some of your humanity.”

Santoro shrugged and poured hot water into a cup. “One of us had to.”

PJ’s smile deepened.

“So, why did you really come here?” Santoro didn’t bother glancing over his shoulder as he set down the kettle heavily. “At this point, I’m starting to doubt that you’re really here to kill me, or you would have done so by now.”

PJ shook his head simply, the soft click of the door down the hall opening slightly reaching his ears. “I’m ruthless, Matthew. Not reckless.” He dipped his hand to his hidden holster and drew his gun, the familiar weight a reminder of what was to happen momentarily. “We both know what will happen. There’s no point in rushing it.”

“No point in delaying it much, either.” Santoro turned, leaning back on the counter, eyes examining PJ thoughtfully. “What do you have planned, Peej?”

PJ stuck his hand in his pocket, very pointedly settling his grasp on his gun with the other, and raised an eyebrow. His left fingers were resting against- no. Not yet.

“I wouldn’t recommend shooting me, you know.” Santoro almost seemed to smile, though whether it was in response to PJ or the light footsteps in the back of the apartment was unclear. “I thought you respected me more than to give me such a simple death.”

“Oh, no,” PJ laughed softly, “this isn’t for you.”

He stepped forward half an inch and pointed it down the short hall at the men there, including some disappointingly familiar faces. Zombie had warned him that three of his men had been acting strangely and had all requested time off, and they’d both known what it meant, but it was still disappointing.

Unfortunately for them, PJ would kill men of the Family if they’d proven they were no longer loyal—and even more unfortunately for them, he was a very good shot.

Five shots rang out in quick succession, and five bodies slumped to the ground and against the wall.

Santoro sighed, and a soft click sounded. When PJ glanced back over, Santoro was pointing a gun at him.

“You should never have let your guard down,” Santoro said plainly. “Do you really think your men can get up here in time to do anything but find you dead in a pool of your own blood?”

“Of course not.” PJ slowly reloaded his gun, not bothering to give Santoro much attention. If he shot, he would shoot. PJ wouldn’t be able to stop that. “I wouldn’t want to lead them into a slaughter in any case.” He holstered his gun and walked across Santoro’s kitchen, pulling the curtains to the window shut. “Things will be bad enough for the Family with them losing a capo, I’m not so irresponsible as to cost them over a dozen men in the same night.”

Santoro lowered his gun for a moment, eyes narrowed. “You’ve come on a suicide mission? You wouldn’t be so foolish.”

“You’re a danger to the entire Family, Santoro, and you know it.” PJ stepped away from the window, sitting in a chair at the table. “And you know me. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect them.” He smiled faintly. “It was always my biggest strength.”

Santoro lowered the gun a bit more, staring at him. “And now it will be your downfall.” He raised the gun back up as he moved around the table towards the window. “You realize they don’t care about you. None of them do. What kind of loyalty do they really owe you? None. Your refusal to allow others into the Family is leaving you weak and vulnerable.”

PJ shrugged slightly. “It’s not really my choice, though. I’m not the godfather. I’m not the underboss. I’m merely a capo.”

Santoro glared at him. “And that’s all you ever will be with no ambition and no drive.” He shook his head and reached up for the curtains.

PJ glanced at the clock.

Two minutes. He could almost smell the gasoline from here.

Santoro threw open the blinds, clearly interested in whatever PJ had been looking at-

The sound of a rifle being shot hung in the air. Santoro staggered back from the window, falling behind the relative safety of a wall. He took a shuddering gasp and slowly turned towards PJ, blood spreading quickly across his chest.

“The... Family doesn’t have snipers,” he murmured, dumbfounded. “How...?”

“That shot, dear Santoro,” PJ said amicably, standing, “was made by one Jordan Maron. You may remember him, given that you hired him a year and a half ago.” He smiled coldly as Santoro started sliding down the wall. “And as it happens, I have it on good authority that our current dear underboss was passing information to you.” He straightened his tie with a simple tug. “I expect to have the position by sundown tomorrow.”

“But- he isn’t-”

PJ put a finger to his lips. “That secret will die with you.”

An anguished expression crossed Santoro’s face, and his heavy breathing got just a little bit sharper.

A shout sounded from outside, and PJ glanced at the front door. “I’m afraid that’s my cue to leave, but I’ll be sure to tell-”

Santoro shot.

The bullet tore into PJ’s collar, gouging a hot line of pain along the side of his neck. Had he moved an inch, it would have taken him in the throat.

PJ clapped one hand over the wound, already feeling blood run through his fingers, and turned to glare at Santoro. He walked the few remaining feet between them and stepped on Santoro’s hand, grinding the gun out of the dying man’s grasp.

“You’ll die on your way out of here,” Santoro choked, blood bubbling from his mouth. “I can’t let you lead the Family. You’ll lead it to ruin.”

PJ didn’t deign him with an answer. He just drew a knife and sank it into Santoro’s throat. He ignored the gurgling and the thrashing as Santoro tried desperately to escape his inevitable fate, and dragged the knife through the many, many muscles of the neck.

He wiped the knife on Santoro’s body before sheathing it, then dragged his hand across his own face with a grimace. It came away red. Santoro’s blood had gotten everywhere. PJ stood and took out his handkerchief, then after a moment pressed it to his own wound. Then he stood, made sure his gun was loaded and ready, then walked to the front door.

He unlocked it with a sharp click and stepped out. The hallway was filled with orange light and smoke that immediately brought tears to PJ’s eyes and a choking to his throat. He involuntarily coughed, grimacing as it forced his own wound to bleed even more.

He didn’t have much time. The fire was already bad, of course, but it would only get worse.

He darted down the stairs. Flames licked up between gaps in the floorboards, and the orange glow from the wood down below was impossible to ignore. More than once, a step would give out on him as he put weight on it, forcing him to take the stairs three or four at a time just to maintain the speed he needed so he wouldn’t fall through-

The landing under him collapsed.

The world came back quickly, but judging by the dull wetness on his shoulder drying out, he’d been unconscious for at least a minute.

PJ lifted his head and glanced around. His collar stuck to his skin. He was on the second floor now, he was almost out, but the staircase in front of him was completely gone. He’d have to jump down to the ground floor and hope he made it out without further injury. 

Wood crashed and collapsed nearby, sending sparks flying up around PJ. He flinched, then coughed at the smoke, and then, with his neck bleeding freely once again, vaulted over the railing to the burning floor below.

He landed less than gracefully, allowing himself to roll on impact—well, it was more of an uncontrolled tumble, but it helped to break his fall. His hips were aching as he staggered to his feet once again, this time stumbling towards the door. He had to pat out a few small fires where his clothes had caught fire on impact, and he didn't dare wonder how many cuts and bruises he would have once he stopped for medical care. He had no idea how he was going to explain his injuries to the Freddy's crew, either, so if he could keep them from finding out at all that would be all the better. But he was alive, and that meant all of those problems were things that could wait at least a few minutes.

He stumbled out, nearly falling as the cooler air washed over him. Hands reached out and steadied him, holding him as he gasped for air.

"You're injured," Jordan's familiar voice said, concern clear. "Come on, let's get you sitting down."

Jordan led PJ away from the chaos, forcing him to sit on the edge of the car seat. 

"Santoro's dead," PJ murmured, allowing Jordan to pull out a roll of bandages from the first aid kit in the glovebox and start to wrap the still-bleeding bullet graze wound.

"From the looks of you, you almost joined him."

PJ chuckled. “Almost.”

Jordan grunted. "Let's get everyone home."

♣♥♠♦

The current underboss claimed he had no involvement with Santoro, of course, but considering PJ was standing in front of the godfather and other two capos bloody and grim, almost swaying on his feet from exhaustion and pain, his cries fell on ears unwilling to listen. The Family couldn’t have any traitors, of course, and since PJ had nearly died getting this information and there was nobody to verify it...

The underboss did manage to convince the godfather to conduct a proper investigation, see who was really lying, though judging by the way Matthias and Zombie both stepped closer to PJ at the accusation, they’d already made up their minds.

As it turned out, PJ didn’t even have to do anything else. He didn’t have to plant any evidence—after all, he’d heard from Santoro himself, gloating after injuring PJ, or at least that was what the others thought. If there wasn’t any evidence, well either the underboss had hidden it or Santoro had been lying, but PJ was duty-bound to report these kinds of accusations. 

At the end of the day he didn’t even have to arrange an accident for the underboss. The sharpshooter of the McLaughlin Boys took care of that.

PJ almost wished he knew who had replaced Jordan in the McLaughlin Boys, who had put a bullet in the underboss’ eye. He’d at least thank the man before shooting him.

After all, he decided as he examined himself in the mirror, familiar bowtie once again on his body and his collar covering the bandages so Jack wouldn’t see the injury up close, he was the underboss now. If things went according to plan, he would be the godfather as soon as the old man kicked the bucket.

And now that Jordan was the third capo in the Family, he was sure that whenever it happened, he would have the loyalty of everyone.

He turned to leave for Freddy’s, smiling softly. One step closer to running the mafia.

It was a shame Wiggles wasn’t there to see it.


End file.
